


A Study In Balance

by SerpentineJ



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M, Shassie Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 1: Tease. Three times Lassie is an unwitting tease, and Shawn can’t help but be mature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Balance

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: So this is late.

**i. Sharp**

Shawn stares.

It’s a bit hard not to, honestly, what with Lassie looking all…

Well.

The other man is standing by a file cabinet in the corner of the station, rifling through it and muttering to himself, but that’s nothing unusual; the more atypical thing is what he’s wearing.

It’s a sharp suit, the shoulders broad and well-fitting, dark, one button instead of Lassiter’s usual two-button. Probably tailored, he thinks, gaze trailing down the sides of the detective’s hips, admiring how it highlights the narrowing taper of his wait. The pants are equally fancy, sleek and trim, and Shawn admires how they frame his long legs and the tight curve of his-

Carlton turns around, still scowling, and Spencer jerks his eyes away.

“Shawn?” Gus’s voice comes in from his right. “Shawn, what do you think?”

He looks back, at where Jules and Gus are chatting about… what was it? The new Marvel movie. 

“O-oh. Er,… yeah, that’s great.”

Juliet frowns at the psychic. “Shawn, are you feeling alright? You’ve been quiet all day.”

He rolls his eyes, sliding a grin onto his face. “What are you talking about, Jules? I’m fantastic!”

Gus interjects. “No, you’re not.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve been staring at Lassiter for the past five minutes.”

Shawn huffs, casting a look at Jules, silently asking for assistance. When nothing but a knowing look is sent his way, he rolls his eyes. “Fine! But can you blame me? He looks all… sharp and nice and neat.” He gives the now-seated detective another glance. “Why is he wearing such a nice suit anyways?”

“Oh, he’s been undercover for the past couple days.” O’Hara supplied, a light smirk quirking her lips. “We just made the bust; a small drug trafficking ring we were alerted to last week.”

The brunet man couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to the other man again over Juliet’s shoulder; his tie matched his blue-gray eyes perfectly, making Shawn wonder who had picked it out for him, and the white crispness of the dress shirt contrasted the tendons in his neck.

A nice neck, lean and long. It would probably be very receptive to licking, Spencer thinks. A little biting here and there…

Gus nudges him again, huffing, and Shawn tears his gaze away.

~~~~~~

“Hey, Lassie!” 

Carlton looks up at the ever-cheerful voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, brows furrowing in anticipation of the oncoming headache.

“What, Spencer.” The end of his sentence is flat and uninviting, not a question but a statement.

The faux-psychic bounced over to the detective’s desk, abandoning his conversation with O-Hara and Guster in order to further irritate him.

“Well,” he grinned, “I heard you guys had a big bust today. Congrats!”

Carlton looks back to his paperwork, ignoring the nuisance to the best of his ability. 

“And I must say,” the brown-haired man continues, still smiling, “that I’m very impressed by your new wardrobe. Very smooth.”

The other glances up at that, frowning. “Alright, what’s the joke.”

Shawn acts wounded, placing a hand melodramatically on his chest and staggering theatrically backwards.

“Joke?” He cries. “I’m offended you would suggest I have such cruel intentions. I was merely offering my congratulations on your collar!”

Lassiter rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“And this suit is really nice…” the other continues, leaning backwards on the desk beside the detective and reaching down to finger the sleeve of his suit. “Like, really nice. Where did you get this?”

“Get off!” Carlton slaps his hand away. Shawn doesn’t miss the faint flush that reddens the tips of his ears and dusts his cheeks a faint pink. “And this came from a rental place on the department budget. The drug ring was operating out of a high-class bar.”

Spencer smirks. “Well, you look very dapper.”

The other turns fully around at this, eyes sharply suspicious. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Dude, all I did was pay you a compliment.”

Lassiter gestures at him. “Exactly.”

Shawn chuckles.

**ii. Work Casual**

“Hey, Jules,” Spencer asks, frowning, “how long has Lassie been at the station?”

The blonde detective looks up and glances at her partner, concern flitting across her features. 

“I went home before him last night, and he was here when I got here, so I don’t know…” She murmured. “Though he is wearing a different suit, so he went home.”

Lassiter is messy, his typically pressed suit jacket slung casually over the back of his chair, dress shirt wrinkled and rolled up to the elbows, holster tight, salt-and pepper hair mussed. He somehow manages to look absolutely delectable, even though his scowl and the rings under his eyes and the nearly cold coffee in his hand, and Shawn decides it’s not fair.

Because really, he’s probably running off at least four cups of caffeine and three hours of sleep, bad-tempered and the way he keeps carding his big hands through his short hair, highlighting the shoddy haircut, but Spencer still wants to hug him and kiss the tip of his nose and cuddle in a warm bed.

It’s very, very concerning, how much power the lanky detective unknowingly holds over him.

He’d go to hell if Lassie really asked, and that scares him.

~~~~~~

“Hey, Lass.” Carlton frowns at the voice and doesn’t look away from his computer monitor, draining the last of his crappy office coffee and grimacing.

The cup is snatched from his grip, prompting a “Hey!” and a hiss, but he hasn’t even gotten fully out of his chair (the exhaustion is starting to catch up to him) before it’s pushed back into his hand, warm and steaming this time.

“…what are you doing, Spencer?” He sighs, migraine beginning to pound at his left temple. “I really have no time or energy for your stunts right now.”

Shawn chuckles. “Dude, I just got you coffee.”

“Did you drug it?”

“Of course not.”

Carlton snorts. “Pardon me if I don’t believe you. Guster told me about the milkshake incident.”

The faux-psychic pouts. “What, the time I slipped him a couple allergy pills? He probably skewed it way out of proportion.”

The detective rolls his eyes, but takes a sip from the coffee nonetheless.

It’s perfect.

Of course.

**iii. Photo**

Shawn holds back the urge to wolf-whistle.

Hot damn.

He slides the photo album a little further onto the desk, leaning forwards and grinning at the image.

There’s a scrape of a key in the front door lock; Lassiter is back, and he’ll probably be pissed when he finds out Shawn broke into his house again.

Well, maybe the pancakes would be a decent peace offering.

~~~~~~

“Spencer!”

There it is.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

Shawn grins at the other man, wagging a picture between his fingers. “Lassie, you never told me you had a punk-rock phase!”

“Wh- SPENCER!”

The detective storms towards him, throwing his briefcase on his couch before reaching for the album. “Get your grubby hands off my things!”

The brunet man chuckles when Lassiter scrambles to stuff all the papers back into the box on the desk.

“I made pancakes, by the way. You’re welcome.”

The other pauses in his cleaning and frowned. “…why?”

Shawn makes his way to the kitchen. “I was out of flour,” he calls over his shoulder, “and you always have plenty! Plus you’ve been working yourself to death, and you look really tired and grumpy and pancakes are appropriate for any time of day. Or night.”

Carlton stacks the carton with the others by the wall and rolls his eyes.

“Why are you here, Spencer?” He rubs his forehead and sighs, not bothering to try and force the intruding nuisance to leave. “Usually you’ve left by the time I’m back.”

The faux-psychic responds, grabbing a plate for his breakfast treats, “Because, Lassie, pancakes are only good when they’re warm!”

~~~~~~

Before he knows it, they’re sitting at his kitchen table, Carlton trying to remember why he hasn’t shot Shawn yet. 

The pancakes are delicious, though.

It’s so out of character for him, to not be angry at the intrusion into his private life; hell, he should be blazing, eyes hard and hands rough as he shoves Spencer out the front door, but the scent of vanilla and the unusual warmth of his apartment (he always turns the heat down when he goes to work, it saves energy and Carlton is nothing if not frugal) lending an… almost homely, lived in feeling.

It’s… nice, even if the one bringing the warm feeling to his chest is Spencer.

Maybe it’s because the other man has been pushing at the professional barrier between them for years; invading his space, weaseling his way into his home, and somehow slipping slowly through the barricades of his mind, seeping into the corners until his thoughts are saturated.

Spencer. Spencer. Spencer.

Shawn.

“Hey, Carly?” The aforementioned man looks up at him, something disturbingly like… concern glittering in his hazel eyes. “You okay?”

That’s not right.

That’s definitely not right.

Spencer isn’t supposed to be concerned, especially not about him. He’s supposed to be carefree and smug, brilliant and witty and untethered, everything that Carlton is not.

Perhaps that’s why they work together so well.

Perhaps that’s why they’re so drawn to one another.

Perhaps that’s why Carlton Lassiter, who prides himself on his methodical thinking, his logical approaches and compartmentalized life, leans over, nearly knocking over the bottle of syrup on the table, to kiss Shawn Spencer, faux psychic and a pain in the ass.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I don’t know about this. It was supposed to be a light little thing about Shawn ogling Lassie and it turned into something introspective and weird.
> 
> Happy Shassie Week (and sorry this is late!)


End file.
